


sneakin' up on your blind side

by t_fic (topaz), topaz, topaz119 (topaz)



Series: you need a rock not a rolling stone [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/t_fic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/topaz/pseuds/topaz119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Home?” Clint asks, and Darcy means to just agree, but when she opens her mouth, all that comes out is a wordless, embarrassing noise (ok, whimper) at the thought of their little converted basement apartment on Capitol Hill. She knows it’s not anything all that great, and that they could have been living the good life in Georgetown in a Stark-funded condo, but it’s the first place she’s ever had as an actual adult-type person, one who is a productive member of society, and it’s <i>home</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sneakin' up on your blind side

**Author's Note:**

> [you need a rock not a rolling stone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/366960) just reached one of those significant numbers in terms of hits (really, it's mind-boggling to me), so to celebrate, my brain apparently decided it was time for some fluffy smut. I can't really thank everyone who's read and commented and kudo'd and recced and loved on this series enough--I've had just the best time with this story and I'm so happy that it's made other people happy, too. ♥ to you all.
> 
> At this point, I think you have to have read at least a few stories in the series for this to make sense, sorry!

Everyone knows how dicey things have always been with Latveria. The fact that Doom had even entertained the possibility of a US-based NGO coming across his borders had been a major step forward. 

It still sucks to be halfway across the Atlantic and have to turn around. 

Everybody takes it with professionalism, pushing aside the semi-toxic mix of disappointment and resignation to start planning for ‘next time.’ Nobody throws a diva fit, nobody resigns in a huff. There’s no finger-pointing or blaming going on. At the very least, Darcy feels like she made the right choice in job offers coming off her doctorate, even moreso when the director stands up after they land and tells everyone on the plane how proud she is of them all and how she wants everyone to take a few days of downtime and then they’ll reconvene fresh. 

Darcy knows it’s a good idea, but it still feels like being sent home from school with a demerit for incomplete homework. She pastes what she hopes is a polite smile on her face, though, because the director is at the door of the plane, making a point to thank everyone personally, even the super-new staffers like Darcy, who can’t be much more than names on an org chart at this point. 

She manages to thank the director, too, because it really has been inspiring to work on this project and be a part of something that is so potentially world-changing straight out of grad school. The word gets passed back up the line of deplaning coworkers that the press is there, so everybody straightens their backs and brings the diplomatic game-faces into play. Darcy gets through all _that_ in pretty damn fine shape if she does say so herself (Pepper Potts is never a bad role-model, but right now Darcy is channeling her ‘No Comment’ press-handling mode so hard she bets Pepper can feel her across the continent.) It still takes just about all of her energy, but then, right as she’s teetering on the edge of running for the nearest ladies room and hiding herself away, her phone buzzes with a picture of Evie sacked out in her carseat and a message that says, _waitin on you Lewis_ , and Darcy thinks she just might make it through the gauntlet without breaking.

*

As Darcy comes staggering out of the terminal (she will be retiring these particular heels in a fucking _bonfire_ ), Clint’s leaning on the side of the car, shooting the breeze with one of the baggage handlers. He’s got a ball cap on, with sunglasses up on the bill, so it’s about fifty-fifty whether the guy he’s talking with recognizes him, but the thing about Hawkeye fans is that they’re very, very chill. Thor has people yelling war cries at him all the time, Cap gets the people who freeze up/stutter/babble when they recognize him, Iron Man still gets propositions written on bras and panties (and the occasional pair of boxer briefs), but Hawkeye’s fans just want to hang out for a while. (The Widow almost never gets recognized, but when she does, it’s like the Queen of England just arrived. Darcy is not opposed to this, but it sets Natasha’s teeth on edge.) 

“Hey, man, I’m done for the day,” Clint says, catching sight of Darcy. He straightens up and pops the trunk with one hand while he reaches for the Sharpie and stack of claim checks the other guy is suddenly waving around nervously. Okay, so a fan then, Darcy thinks. She and Clint usually keep the PDA on the down-low, regardless, but she is absolutely not in the mood to feed the curiosity of random strangers right this moment, so she just tips her suitcase and laptop bag in the trunk and reaches for the passenger-side door. 

Clint’s on the same wavelength--it’s pretty fantastic how that keeps working better the longer they know each other--so, he doesn’t actually greet her, just gives her the smile that’s all about the eyes, which, being real, is still, after however many years _and_ a kid who is almost ready for a birthday, enough to make Darcy weak around the knees. Fortunately, there is a car with a seat for her to fall into and said kid-almost-ready-for-a-birthday asleep in the back. Even when she’s not awake, she can take over Darcy’s brain for ridiculous lengths of time, so however much time the autographing and selfie-taking that is happening outside her window is going to take is just fine with Darcy.

Evie is seriously zonked but still clutching onto the battered, almost fur-less Winnie the Pooh Darcy’s mom had dug out of a box in her attic and delivered to the hospital once Evie finally deigned to make her appearance. (It’s a book-Pooh, not the Disney version; it had taken Darcy half-killing her voice right before her dissertation defense and actually reading the books to Clint to convince him of the importance of that distinction. No voice was a more than fair trade-off for getting to share a little bit more of a not-dysfunctional childhood with him, though.) 

Darcy reaches out and touches a threadbare arm. She had almost loved it to death; Evie’s doing her best to finish the job. It’s kind of awesome.

Clint finally finishes up with the bros and slides in behind the wheel of the car. The windows are tinted, so Darcy has no qualms about climbing over the gearshift and reeling him in for a long, _long_ kiss. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Sorry it all fell apart.”

“Sucks,” Darcy says, but quietly, because while she might be seriously in love with the munchkin in the back seat, she is under no illusions as to the hell that will break loose if the kid wakes up before she gets her full nap in. “Sucks, sucks, _sucks_.”

“Doom’s a nutcase,” Clint says with what passes for a philosophical shrug from him. 

“Yup.” Darcy rests her forehead against his, and then untangles herself and gets back over to the passenger seat. Thanks to the pencil cut of her suit skirt and how tailored her blouse is, it’s a little more complicated than usual, but Clint, at least, is entertained by the process if the look in his eyes is anything to go by. And hey, something might actually come from that, given that Darcy is suddenly at loose ends for a couple of days. Later, though, because she’d been planning on sleeping on the plane and that hadn’t happened, so she’s about ready to pass out. She gets her seat belt on and leans her head back against the seat, closing her eyes and breathing deep as Clint puts the car in gear and eases out into traffic. “I’m guessing Jarvis tipped you off?”

“Yeah, but you know, I was out driving loops around Beltway to get your kid to sleep,” Clint says. Darcy knows he's shrugging even without opening her eyes. “Easy enough to detour here and see what was up.”

Darcy snorts, because as far as she can tell, ‘her’ kid’s sleep patterns are allllll Hawkeye, but it’s not worth the energy to argue. 

“Home?” Clint asks, and Darcy means to just agree, but when she opens her mouth, all that comes out is a wordless, embarrassing noise (ok, whimper) at the thought of their little converted basement apartment on Capitol Hill. She knows it’s not anything all that great, and that they could have been living the good life in Georgetown in a Stark-funded condo, but it’s the first place she’s ever had as an actual adult-type person, one who is a productive member of society, and it really is _home_. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Clint says, and when she reaches out her hand without opening her eyes, he takes it and holds it for the rest of the way across the Potomac and up to the Hill. 

*

Evie wakes up as Darcy’s unbuckling her from her car seat. She blinks at Darcy, and then says, fiercely, “ _Mah_ ,” which is both _Mom_ and _mine_ in Evie-speak. She reaches her arms out and gloms onto Darcy with a stubbornness that Darcy would like to blame on Clint, but possesses enough self-awareness to admit she’s contributed more than a little of. Not even the lure of avocados for dinner (yes, the child is a freak of nature who eats things that her father gags at) gets her to let go completely. She eats with one hand and holds onto Darcy’s hair with the other. Clint, of course, thinks it’s hilarious and texts pictures to everyone, but he at least catches Evie before she rubs her avocado-y hand all over Darcy’s hair, so Darcy gives him a pass for the pictures. Her blouse is toast, though.

And then bedtime spirals down into a disaster, with Evie shrieking for Darcy every time she gets around the corner and out of a direct line of sight. Even Clint going in and rubbing her daddy's-little-princess back doesn’t calm her down. Every inconsolable wail is one more brick in the Bad Mom wall Darcy is building in her head. 

Clint takes one look at Darcy when he comes back out of Evie’s little nursery and wraps her up in a hug. “She was fine while you were gone,” he says. “Swear.”

“So this is just her declaration of intent for the emotional manipulation part of her agenda?” Darcy says into his shoulder. Clint half-laughs, half-shrugs. Darcy adds, “She’s very good at it. Aces.”

“That’s our girl,” Clint says, and even as tired and upset as she is, Darcy can hear the strain under the light tone. She knows standing here and listening to Evie cry has to be hitting every button he has, everything from the super-hero need to go and fix things to the horror show that was his childhood. 

“Okay,” Darcy says, taking a deep breath. Evie’s still sobbing like her world is broken and the nagging little voice in the back of her head is harmonizing and telling Darcy she’s a terrible mother, but Darcy’s actually more worried about Clint now. If she could, she’d reach through to the netherworld and cheerfully hand his father over the the Hulk, but until the Avengers’ brain trust comes up with a transporter (or Thor gives in and introduces her to Hel), she’s just going to have seethe internally. “I’ve got this.” She rises up on her tip toes to kiss the worry line between Clint’s eyes. “You know my mom is laughing at the karmic revenge.”

That gets a real smile from him, and it is slightly ridiculous how much of a boost that gives Darcy. She marches herself around the corner and confronts her drama queen daughter. 

“Mah,” Evie sobs, pulling herself up on the crib railing and reaching for Darcy. “Mah, mah, _mah_.”

“Yes,” Darcy tells her. “I’m here but it’s still time for sleep.” She smooths Evie’s hair back off her sweaty forehead and reaches for a tissue to clean up the mess she’s made of her face. Evie whimpers pathetically and tries to squirm away, but Darcy is onto her now. “There,” she says, dropping a kiss on the top of Evie’s head, “all better.” 

All the experts say that Darcy should now just leave, but since that hasn’t worked the first five times and she can see Evie gearing up for another full-throated shriek, Darcy very deliberately takes a deep breath and consigns the ‘experts’ to their own very special ring of Hell and pats the mattress next to Evie. “C’mon, baby, I know you’re mad at me for going away, but this is messing with your Daddy and it’s not fair.” 

Evie looks at Darcy with big, dark eyes, and Darcy knows she can’t possibly understand what Darcy’s saying, not really, but she breathes out in a shuddery little whimper and puts her head down where Darcy’s still patting the mattress. She’s exhausted, that much is clear, but with the double dose of stubborn she’s inherited, that doesn’t really mean much. Darcy bends down to kiss her again, and Evie grabs for her hair. 

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Darcy murmurs. Her hair has always been Evie’s security blanket, right from the start. Darcy’s lost count of the middle-of-the-night nursing sessions where they’d both fallen asleep with Evie’s hands buried in Darcy’s hair. They’ve kind of broken the habit, but Darcy decides it’s a crisis and getting Evie to fall asleep in her crib is worth a little setback on that front. Fortunately, she hasn’t lost the knack of getting free long enough that she can swap out being bent over the railing for sitting on the floor and leaning back against the crib fast enough that Evie doesn’t start crying again, just reaches out with her dimpled little fist and takes the section of hair Darcy threads through the crib railing. Darcy holds her breath, because if this doesn’t work, it’s going to be a very long and ugly night, but Evie just sighs out and settles a little more deeply, stroking her fingers through where the ends of Darcy’s hair are curling from the lovely DC humidity.

Of course, this means Darcy’s trapped, but it’s quiet and peaceful and dark in the little room they use as a nursery. She doesn’t hear anything, so Clint’s probably on high alert, moving like he’s on a mission, and it honestly doesn’t take long to doze off herself. When she opens her eyes again, Clint’s sitting on his heels in front of her, watching her and Evie with a silent intensity.

“Good job,” Clint breathes.

“‘S borderline creepy when you do the stalker-watcher routine,” Darcy mumbles, but very, _very_ quietly. Evie is-- _hallelujah_ \--snoring behind her and none of them need a reprise of the bedtime drama. Clint smirks at her, and Darcy is beyond exhausted because that usually gets her all hot and bothered but all she can think of now is their lovely, king-sized mattress and the stupidly expensive sheets Pepper had bought them as a housewarming gift. 

“C’mon,” Clint says, reaching past her to gently disentangle her hair from Evie’s hand. Darcy manages to stand up without groaning at all the stiff muscles, and she and Clint make their escape down the hall. Darcy face-plants on their bed and wriggles out of her clothes without even sitting up. 

“Oh, god,” she groans, flailing her arms and legs in the silky softness. “These sheets are even better than I remembered.”

“It’s only been a week,” Clint says, tossing one of his shirts onto the bed next to her. Darcy can hear the grin in his voice even with her head half under a pillow. “I mean, I know you have a thing for the sheets--”

“I think the description you’re looking for is ‘unholy love,’”Darcy interrupts, dragging the shirt on. “Deep, abiding, unholy loooooove.” She stretches luxuriously, and grins into the mattress as Clint snorts. “Don’t hate, you know you love them, too.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t,” Clint mutters. “I just have issues with sheets that are worth more’n my car.”

“At least we have fun on them,” Darcy says. 

“I dunno, sweetheart,” Clint says, sliding up behind her. “We’ve had a pretty good time in that car, too.” He dances his fingers lightly over her hip and up to her waist, a not-quite tickle that makes her shiver. She curls into him and reaches back to do a little finger-dancing of her own. It’s all pretty awesome, right up until the point where the enormous yawn overtakes her. Clint snickers, and stops teasing her, tucking the covers over her instead. 

“Wait,” Darcy whines. “That was starting to be fun.”

“I think you almost cracking your jaw is the cue for something other than fun.”

“You’re mean,” Darcy grumbles, but she’s already asleep by the time she finishes.

*

Darcy doesn’t think she even moves during the night. When she opens her eyes again, the light behind the half-open blinds has the soft, hazy quality of pre-dawn. Clint stirs behind her (she’s long since given up hoping he might get to the point where he doesn’t come awake at the slightest movement, but she still doesn’t have to like it.) Ordinarily, she’d yank a pillow over her head and ignore the world for as long as she could, but it’d been _really_ early when she’d crashed and she actually feels pretty okay. Plus…

“Do you hear anything?” she whispers. She holds her breath and listens hard, but, yeah…

“Nothing,” Clint murmurs. His arm tightens across and over her hip and stomach. “Time check?”

Darcy squints at the clock. “Five-fifty-y-y,” she answers, ending on a whimper as Clint pulls her back against him and she gets the full effect of lots and lots of skin against hers. 

“Mmm,” Clint says into the curve of her neck. “We’ve got fifteen minutes, tops.”

“Are you saying you can’t work within those parameters?” Darcy wiggles her butt back and oh, yeah, no problems there. She is definitely not the only person in the bed who is thinking about how much fun morning sex can be.

“I’m saying--” Clint pauses to catch her earlobe between his teeth, biting down hard enough that he can tug on it, which lights her up like nothing else, which he definitely knows, “-- that I’m not going to be taking my time.”

“Really not a problem,” Darcy gasps as he slides both hands up under the shirt she’s wearing, his calluses scraping against her skin. “More like a feature--” she starts to say, but then he’s pinching at her nipples, no teasing or messing around, just quick and hard and right on the edge of painful, and she breaks off with a yelp that she barely gets muffled in the pillow. 

Clint’s smirking, she can feel it against her shoulder, smug as hell and very pleased with himself, but Darcy seriously doesn’t _care_ , not as long as he doesn’t stop. She reaches back and claws at him, dragging him closer, alternating between pulling at his boxers and her own bikinis, determined to get them both naked. 

“Now,” Darcy manages to hiss. “Seriously, _now_ ,” she demands, finally getting a hand on his cock and giving him a little of his own medicine, her nails dragging the length and across the head until she gets a few bitten-off curses of her own.

“Over,” Clint growls, and Darcy is not averse to the idea. He doesn’t stop anything he’s doing to her, though, and it takes her three tries to get rolled up onto her knees. He moves with her, his thighs forcing hers further apart and holding her there for endless seconds, her nipples tight and hard, hot from where he’s scraped his nails across them, throbbing from how he’s rolled and twisted them, her thighs aching from the strain. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he finally grits out, and then he’s pushing into her fast and deep, his fingers biting into her hips, holding them steady for him. Darcy keeps her head buried in the pillow so she can make as much noise as she wants, choked-off cries and raw, harsh sounds that aren't quite words. He’s not going to last long, not with how hard he’s fucking her, but neither is she, not once he gets one hand down where she needs it, fingers moving with wicked intent on her clit. He works her mercilessly, fingering her hard and rough, fucking her with the same rhythm, and she barely feels the orgasm coming before it’s flooding over her in a wild rush that steals her breath and leaves her whimpering and shaking.

Clint curls down over her, his elbows braced on the mattress on either side of her head, just enough weight on her to feel good, not enough to squish her. He mouths across the back of her neck and shoulders and she can feel that his breathing is just as crazy as hers. After all these years, it’s kinda nice that they can still wind each other up like this. She basks in the afterglow for a bit, but not for super-long, because they’re on the clock here and she definitely needs a shower before Evie kicks their day into high gear. 

“That fit your parameters, sweetheart?” Clint’s back to the smug tone, which, given how they’re both still breathless, is not entirely undeserved, but which Darcy counters with a quick bite to his biceps, regardless.

“Acceptable,” she tells him, squirming away from his completely predictable attempt to get at the ticklish spot at the top of her ribs. She still doesn’t hear Evie, so she smacks Clint on the butt as she races for the shower, pulling her hair back and up so it doesn’t get soaked. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t have time to deal with it right now, not if she’s going to keep up with the kid. She makes it out of the shower right as she hears the first yell from the nursery, the one that announces Evie’s awareness of the new day and her disbelief that the personal servants assigned to her (ie, Darcy and Clint) are not already there awaiting her royal command. Clint’s crashed out across the bed, already snoring, but still pretty damn cute, what with the hair smashed up in ten different directions, so Darcy doesn’t poke him, just grabs her robe and goes to see what’s up with the princess, flipping the coffee on as she goes by the little galley kitchen.

Evie is thrilled to see Darcy, (“Mah,” she says, all happy smiles as she stands in her crib, and “tiss, tiss,”) which is not at all a bad way to start the day, even if there’s the obligatory diaper change after the kisses. 

They’re well into their breakfasts of Cheerios and bananas (Darcy gets hers in a bowl and coffee on the side, while Evie cheerfully mashes everything together on her tray before she stuffs it into her mouth and washes everything down with a Stark Industries sippy cup full of apple juice) when Clint finally makes his appearance. 

“Dadada,” Evie greets him. “Side, _side_ , siiiiing.”

“Do I get a kiss before we head out to the swings?”

“Tiss,” Evie agrees and lets him drop one on the top of her head. “Side, sing,” she finishes firmly, with the look that says she doesn’t trust his cognitive functions without direct supervision on her part. Darcy pretty much loves that look. 

“Yep,” Darcy says, handing Clint his coffee in his giant Stark Industries travel mug (hey, free stuff is not to be turned down. Clint and Darcy are in agreement about that.) She captures Evie’s waving hands and de-bananas them and her face, and gets her out of the high chair. “We are going outside to swing and swing and swing--” Evie crows with laughter as Clint tucks her under his arm like a football-- “and maybe swing some more, until somebody who shall remain nameless drops, and then, while that same somebody sleeps the sleep of the righteous, you and me, Hawkeye--” Darcy taps Clint on the chest and goes up on her toes to kiss him on the mouth. It’s the first kiss of the day, regardless of the fucking that had already happened, so she makes it a good one. “We are going to see if we still remember how fun times on the sheets work with more than 15 minutes.”

“I can work with that,” Clint says, reaching for his baseball cap and sunglasses with the hand that’s not holding Evie. Darcy grabs coffee of her own, and slings the backpack-cum-diaper bag over her shoulder and goes out to make the most of the down time.

**Author's Note:**

> Title (once again) by Bonnie Raitt -- from the lyrics of _Love Sneakin' Up On You_.


End file.
